A Multitude of Details
by scrapbookofwasabi
Summary: Attorney James Bradley’s normal life is violently disrupted when a cruel devil warlord sets up shop in his hometown. As the the emergence of enemies old and new and the revelation of dangerous secrets long thought buried become the norm, he must separate right from wrong as he wages an increasingly desperate war for his home, his life, and those he loves. An Elsewhere Fic.
1. Chapter 1

When James Bradley had first moved to Yonkers, he had tried not to piss off anyone or act in a way that would piss people off towards him. Unsurprisingly, him being a lawyer in the first place had indeed made him an enemy of a fair number of people, and most prominent of that gallery of rogues was the judge that presided over the Yonkers City Court, the Honorable Walter Reed.

It wasn't that Judge Reed bowed to public interest, like most district attorneys- and a fair number of judges- did. Rather, it was the fact that Reed himself was so morally righteous and so adamant on laying down harsh sentences, that made James hate him- and also made Reed an enemy of James.

As the jury debated amongst itself, he took a quick look around. He, James, was alone here- he'd roped this murder case in by himself. In the years since his time as a public defender, James had moved away from defending criminals. His firm these days focused on personal injury, civil litigation, and the intricacies of the tax code, which was Willis' domain. But occasionally a case came that was irresistible to James, something that appealed to his old public-defending spirit.

Such a case was this one; the murder trial of an African-American named Marcus Brown.

"The jury's taking a long time," Brown said, looking at James stoically.

"They're afraid of the judge," he replied. "But it seems we must be holding an edge; otherwise they wouldn't be taking so long."

He glanced around the courtroom, wondering if what he had said was true. The district attorney, Ben Lancaster, was sitting at the opposite table alongside his assistant, Xavier Wood. Both of them sifted through their papers, their brows furrowed in sheer concentration as they, too, gave glances towards the debating jury, and inevitably, him. Then their gazes turned on him, and they narrowed into a disdainful leer. James grunted and shifted his own gaze from them to the bench.

Judge Reed seemed dwarfed by the huge maple desk, but his head loomed large beneath thick hair, which was just starting to turn gray at the temples. His carefully trimmed mustache and whiskers were also touched by gray. His ears matched the size of his head, and were nestled close underneath the shocks of hair. He was somehow neither handsome nor ugly, for the power of his personality always pushed through his physical semblance and created the man that they saw: he could be fearsome, loyal, honest, cruel, insipid, depraved, and even stupid. To James, Judge Reed was indeed a powerful and intimidating opponent, for his thwarted ambitions, which were agitated by a tinge of religious fanaticism, had so ensnarled his perspectives as to blind him to everything except what he saw and what he thought was right.

When the jury finally came in again, Judge Reed leaned forward in the high-backed chair, his rich baritone vibrating into every corner of the room:

"Mr. Foreman, have you reached a verdict?"

"Your Honor," said the mousey-looking foreman somewhat nervously, "we haven't. We're still deadlocked."

Behind James the spectators buzzed, and the Judge rapped sharply with his gavel. He then transfixed the spectators through the silence he had induced, and then turned back to the jury.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is inconceivable that you'd need more time. But I would be very willing to give you more time, if you'd like."

Like last time, James thought, and the time before that. But he kept those thoughts to himself.

"It won't work, Your Honor. We're just not going to agree."

James watched the bench tensely. If Reed kept pounding them, someone on the jury was going to break.

"The court realises," the judge said, "that it is quite late. But we must bear in mind that it is our privilege as American citizens to lend ourselves tirelessly to the pursuit of justice. Are you certain, Mr. Foreman, that you won't agree?"

"It's not happening, Your Honor. I'm certain."

Even as the foreman answered, the individual jurors all shook their heads vigorously, affirming their spokesperson's words.

"Very well," said the judge with a great sigh. He leaned back in his chair and gazed wearily across the courtroom, his eyes returning at last to the jury. He said, in a soft and tremulous voice, "I will excuse you now, ladies and gentlemen, and declare a mistrial. The cause of justice is always strengthened when honest men debate an issue, whether they agree or not. Mr. White, will you please approach the bench before you leave? The rest of you are now dismissed."

For someone who had evaded a heavy sentence -at least for now- Marcus Brown looked very astute.

"At least they didn't hand it down quickly," Brown said.

"They're not going to hand it down at all, buddy."

Whilst the judge conversed with White, the foreman, James exchanged glances with Ben Lancaster and Xavier Wood, who were both sitting silently at the prosecution's table. Lancaster was no idiot; he knew for certain that Brown didn't deserve a first-degree indictment. Yet he'd called for one during the pretrial hearing, and the grand jury had obliged him simply because he'd made the request. But it was probably because he'd bowed to pressure- pressure from the public, pressure to keep his position, which was elected, and most of all, pressure from the judge. Would, then, ever come a time in criminal jurisprudence where prosecutors in general might think that they were the protectors of the innocent as well as pursuers of the guilty? He thought not. As long as the office of district attorney remained a steppingstone to greater political opportunity, it seemed doubtful.

In any case, Judge Reed was pounding again.

James looked up and the judge was staring at him. "The court has decided to withhold its decision as to begin another trial of the accused until nine o'clock next Thursday morning, Mr. Bradley. I would like to see you in my chambers for a few minutes."

"Very well, Your Honor," James curtly replied.

"And you too, Mr. Lancaster."

"Of course, Your Honor." Lancaster's voice was like glass.

"This court is hereby in recess." The judge gave his gavel a rasp. He rose and strode from the courtroom through the back exit.

James turned to his client. "I'll come over to the jail, Marcus."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah. As soon as I talk to the judge."

He entered the judge's private office behind the courtroom. Dark thoughts swirled through his head as he passed beneath the door, thinking all the while of the chewing-out that the judge, ever so hateful of those who defended criminals, was going to dish out to him.

The office itself was rather easy on the eyes, even if the decorations were rather austere. The walls were paneled, and bore a painting and two large framed photographs- a portrait of Washington hung behind the Judge's desk, and another of Clinton, and finally, Obama's face grinning down upon him from the door. The windows curtained in gray velvet and the carpet was a dull brown. The private desk was polished a deep maple, identical with the one in the courtroom.

"President Obama is a great man, isn't he, Mr. Bradley?" the judge quipped. Before James could respond, the judge plowed forward. "Have a chair, Mr. Bradley. You too, Mr. Lancaster."

"Thanks, judge."

Ben Lancaster was a proud-looking man, with wavy brown hair and a surefire smile. He was lean and muscular, and his face was stamped with alertness. His manner was considerate and he acted pretty much the same on or off the courtroom stage. Yet he was also seizing the small opportunities. His direction seemed to be expanding the next stage of his career; on the larger and more fundamental aspects of justice and punishment, Lancaster seemed unknowing and unaware.

James sat facing the desk, and the judge frowned.

"The vote was eight to four."

"Really?" That came from Lancaster, but really, both lawyers were surprised.

"The foreman told me the first vote was six-six, and the second eight-four. It never really changed after that."

"Your Honor," James interjected quickly, "there's no point in another trial at this point. It's obvious that-"

"Mr. Lancaster," the judge said, ignoring James entirely, "the court would entertain a motion by the government to reconsider the question of indictment."

Lancaster cleared his throat. "My office would hesitate, Your Honor, to press the government with the time and money to start another trial if we could get a satisfactory plea without it. Wood and I will work on your suggestion in the light of the grand jury's investigation."

The judge turned back to James, his eyebrows narrowed. "Mr. Bradley, how would your client plead to manslaughter?"

"Guilty," James said steadily. "The evidence is all there, and Mr. Lancaster knows-"

"Mr. Lancaster knows whatever you tell him," the judge cut in, dismissing James' statement. James suddenly wanted to punch someone, specifically the judge, and he reckoned he could do it. He was thirty-five, in the prime of his youth, and he'd grown up on the streets of the Bronx besides, and knew how to pack a punch. But it would be definitely uncouth, and it would probably be enough to get his license to practice revoked, given his nonexistent reputation with the judge. He struggled to keep his temper in check, but he swore he could feel a vein begin to throb.

"The court will consider whatever motion you put before it at nine o'clock Tuesday morning. In the meanwhile, I'd like a word with Mr. Bradley in private. Thank you, Mr. Lancaster."

"Certainly," James replied.

He watched with awkward amusement as Ben Lancaster awkwardly bowed out of Judge Walter Reed's chambers. Ben Lancaster, two-time District Attorney, the government's messenger and executor, seen in his pettiest function.

The judge grunted and began his rant, which, although had no screaming, was still terse nonetheless.

"Mr. Bradley, you have been smart with me again. I'm sure you get great satisfaction from it." He paused, trying to gain control.

"I beg your pardon, Your Honor?"

"You heard me, I'm sure. Your trickery, your twisting, and your accusations of my motives make me crawl in my skin. You accuse me of prejudice, yet everyone knows I am fair and a friend of justice. You told the jury that I would try to lead them into a conviction. I should remand you for your contempt."

"I am convinced," James said, ire rising, "that Mr. Lancaster would have asked for manslaughter if left to his own thinking, Your Honor."

Choose your words carefully, he told himself. One wrong phrase and the judge would explode.

"Don't you try to confuse me. You _know_ your client is guilty."

"He killed a man, no doubt about that. But-"

"But! But?! There are few buts heard by the dead, Mr. Bradley! Your client killed a man with shards of glass from a broken beer bottle behind a bar. Now a fine woman is a widow, and his son has no father."

James remembered their appearances. They had looked pained, and had become even more so as Lancaster explained the man's murder. He had tried to shrink into his seat, but found that he couldn't.

"You explained that to the jury," he said wearily at last.

"It was my duty. I would be wrong if I didn't lead the jury in the right decision."

"Mr. Bradley, I have been presiding judge in this district for nearly fifteen years. I believe I am respected by most people within my jurisdiction- perhaps even the criminal element. It is my belief that you dislike me personally. I would like to ask you, as the Spanish say, _mano a mano_ , whether my suspicions are correct."

Oh, well. Better to tell a quieting lie than reveal the whole, troublemaking yet unimportant, truth.

"I assure you, Your Honor," James said, "that I am only fighting for my clients' rights, as listed in the Constitution that our forefathers wrote down a long time ago. Right to due process, right to fair trial, all that. Nothing more, Your Honor."

At last the judge responded. "Very well. We'll leave it at that." He got up from his chair and strode to the windows behind his desk. "I have hesitated to call you down before now in the hope that once you became familiar with my court, you'd temper your methods. You've been a disrupting influence ever since you moved down here-for how long? Five years? Yes. You have cast aspirations on my judicial integrity since the first case that you've defended against me. Nevertheless, I'd like to be your friend. I'd like to help you get back on the right road, the road of justice."

"Your Honor, I-"

"Good night, Mr. Bradley."

James stared at him, speechless.

By the time James had visited Brown in jail and returned to the street again, it was past eleven o'clock. He seethed with anger as he hopped into his '92 Buick Roadmaster and sped down the nigh-abandoned streets, breaking the speed limit at least twice. At least there were no cops around. That would've made a spectacle.

He lived on the edge of Yonkers in a small, simple house that did not evoke much difference from the others around it. It was a thirty-minute drive from downtown to where he lived, but he was alright with that.

He pulled up in the driveway in front of the garage, which hosted his wife's Mercedes. As Claire went to work later than James did, she got to park inside, because his Buick would always be gone. Except when it wasn't- during the holidays for instance- and he had to move his car down the street before getting the Mercedes out.

The house had been built in the '70s, and he'd bought it for a scant $80,000 in 2004, and paid off the mortgage in less than two years, which allowed him to buy the warehouse without too much clutter. It had been painted a sickly red, and he'd got to work painting it a more appropriate beige, with pretty white highlights. It had a nice front lawn, and a white fence that he'd put in the week after he'd bought it. A rather comfortable home, in a nice neighborhood- perfect for starting a family.

As he entered his house and set down his briefcase, he saw that the kitchen lights were still on. Claire, bless her soul, was still up. She was squatting in the kitchen, cutting pickles with a knife.

"Hello, James dear!" she said, standing up so quickly that he couldn't quite imagine how she did it, "You're home! For a few minutes I was worried that something bad had happened to you, but I guessed that you were trying Marcus Brown's case! So, uh, did you win? And, by the way, Sofie is asleep."

Sofie was their daughter, a wee little child of eight. Given that it was midnight, she would definitely be asleep.

"No," he said at last, sighing as he laid down his briefcase on the table. "Judge Reed was being... _unagreeable_ again, like he is as always."

"Oh," Claire said at last, in that peculiar Slavic accent of hers, so it really sounded like _Ooo_. "Is he always like this? You are always complaining about him."

"He's a judge, honey," James said as he opened the fridge, grabbed a can of beer, and popped it open. "He's always like this. Almost all judges are like that. They're all goddamn assholes."

Claire looked at him, her blue, innocent eyes wide open as she heard the foul language.

"Oh, right," he responded finally, waving a hand. "Sorry. _Izvinjavam se_ , that's what you Serbs say, I think."

Claire nodded. "Foul language is frowned upon by God," she said, as if she was talking to a baby. "Especially if you take His name in vain."

Goddamn goody-two shoes. He'd married one. But that was alright. _The benefits outweighed the drawbacks_ , he thought, as he watched Claire stroll down the hallway to their bedroom, with that tight little rump and a walk that put the girls of the Bronx to shame. Goddamned foreigners, they always had the most attractive women.

With a grunt, James Bradley crushed the beer can and chucked it into the trash can. Then he got up and walked to the bedroom too.

He thought he would join his wife there.

* * *

 **Done.**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO  
**

 _Yonkers, New York_

"We're closed."

Despite the proprietor's utterances, the man walked into the store, undaunted in the slightest. The words did nothing to slow him down. The proprietor watched with barely contained disgust as the other man casually sauntered up to the counter, his head gazing casually to take the store in sight around him. The proprietor watched as the man leveled his head around to gaze coolly at the proprietor, with not a care in the world.

"Nice shop."

"Yeah, you noticed," the proprietor grunted, eyeing the pistol that lay partially concealed beneath a stack of papers. "What do you want?"

"Stuff," the man answered. He looked around, scoffed, and turned back to the proprietor. "You sell all kinds of things, don't you? A thrift store, that's what they call it, don't they?"

"Yes." The proprietor was beginning to grow a bit agitated. He wanted to reach for the pistol and blow this man's brains out, but the proprietor had half a mind that this wasn't a trick, but really just some snarky asshole looking to buy something at too late a time.

"So, I'd like to buy something."

"I'm sorry, we're closed."

The man sighed, and reached in his pocket, and drew a gun.

The gun jammed.

The man spat. "Fuck," the man said, and lunged across the counter, bowling right into the proprietor.

The proprietor had forty pounds on his assailant, but the assailant had the advantage of momentum, and youth, too. He smashed right into the proprietor's stomach, the impact knocking the portly man over. His head smashed against a piece of wood that lay unused behind, spots of black ripping through his vision. From the corner of his eye he saw the man grab a slab of metal, a half-broken girder that the proprietor had salvaged from a trash can, and bring it down hard.

In retrospect, the proprietor should have put the girder somewhere that wasn't easily accessible. See, he had salvaged it because he had thought to mold it into a television mount and sell it. But, given his paranoid nature, even something like a television racket was dangerous to have around. He'd told himself it was just a piece of metal, and it could afford to stay out, in sight, for it was just a piece of metal!

And now it was coming down on his face.

"Fuck," the proprietor spat, blood spewing from his mouth. It was the last word he ever said, and it was fitting too- a palsied confirmation of all the paranoia the proprietor had experienced, which, in a careless moment of waste, had abandoned. But whatever the case, it was all over now.

Fuck indeed.

* * *

At James Bradley's graduation from law school, the professors had talked about the principles of conduct that members of the legal profession would be expected to observe in their practice in the law. However, James Bradley lived in Yonkers, a white-collar 'burb where the prices were reasonably high. Living in Yonkers usually meant that you had some money, and besides, it was a good place to live in, and for you to send your kids to school. The damned downside was, of course, again, that it cost money to live here. Sure, he'd paid off the house, but there still was rent for the office, and a thousand other damned expenses.

Basically that meant ethics didn't mean shit in the face of the simple need (and occasional hunger) for money.

He didn't notice Willis Japhon striding in without a care, casually whistling and tapping away on his little handheld iPhone (James just didn't like those damned sleek things, and preferred a simple Blackberry Bold 9650).

"It is Wednesday, my dudes!" Willis said, in a loud, boisterous tone, spread his arms wide, jaw slacked like an idiot. He then frowned and stopped. "Correction- I meant, dude. There's only two of us here."

James sighed, and went back to thinking.

Willis sat down, kicked his legs back on James' desk, and started tapping his phone again, this time even more furiously.

"Do you know when to stop?" James asked after a while of constant phone-tapping.

"My dude," Willis responded lazily, "there is no stop. Rush B no stop."

"You're goddamn hopeless." James grunted, and turned back to sorting through his docket.

Willis Japhon may have kept up a mask of incompetency, but in truth the people who worked here on this second-floor law office knew that Willis Japhon was a very competent individual, a person who, when given the proper motivation, would reveal himself to be one of the most competent individuals to have ever graced the legal profession. But it was very hard to shake off that mask of 'memes' and 'pansexuality' and all that other retarded shit that the damned liberal kids these days came up with. And so Willis Japhon hung around because he was both comedic relief for the otherwise monotonous yet harried life of a lawyer, and also because he was a relatively easy scapegoat for their misfortunes. Plus, he was, after all, James' only close friend.

Something of it, anyway. James Bradley didn't have too many friends.

"I am hopeless, but don't think I have no hope! Being less of hope and having no hope are two different things, James-buddy." the tax attorney said as James stood up to grab one of the books that formed his small law library. His law firm owned a grand total of twenty-five, most of them being leftovers from law school and as a result, practically worthless. Admittedly, he'd gotten his hands on a set of _Howell's Annotated Statutes_ , which dated from 1912 and was admittedly rare, but the problem was that it was on Michigan, and besides, he wasn't looking for the opinions of long-dead men. He was looking for ways to extort more revenue.

It was at that moment that two people entered the office. One was someone he recognized- it was the secretary, Jeanette Japhon (who was also Willis' youngest sister) tightly clutching a suitcase to her chest. She caught James' slightly irritated gaze, and he watched in horror as she performed the most violent facial twitch he had ever seen- her eyes rose, her lips retracted back to bare teeth as if she was a rabid, snarling dog, and her entire upper body twisting backwards, as if she had seen something revolting. This glued her to the spot, which set the stage for the entrance of the second one.

The second person opened the door to the office and ended up colliding right into Willis' baby sister.

Jeanette gave a high-pitched squeal as she fell to the floor. The person who had entered also fell to the floor, though he managed not to fall on Jeanette, which would have resulted in a truly awkward position. Rather, he- yes, it was a he- managed to somehow sidestep himself into falling a neat horizontal distance away from the embattered secretary.

It was a lucky thing the floor was carpet.

The man got up awkwardly, adjusting his glasses, before offering a hand to Jeanette, which she graciously accepted, her reddish eyes flitting back and forth to James and Willis as she rose in an equally awkward fashion, clutching the suitcase to her chest even tighter.

The awkward silence was broken by Willis Japhon breaking into a massive, guffawing, laughter, the tones of which filled James' office and reverberated back at him like so many echoes in a cave.

"So," the man said, "that was certainly awkward. Anyway, do you do walk-ins?"

~XXXXXXXXXX~

After that embarrassing debacle, the conversation quickly moved into what passed for the law office's conference room, a long-ish room with an equally long oaken table; the otherwise barren room was complemented by several old office chairs graciously provided by the Public Surplus Auction. There were four people in there- James, Willis, Jeanette, and the newcomer. James and Willis had in front of them two hefty legal pads, with an extra book, _Criminal Law and Procedure for the Paralegal_ , thrown in just to look good. The fact that Jeanette -and Willis- had doodled all over it was something James hoped the man would overlook, harried as he look.

Jeanette had an old '99 Toshiba 320CDT, which was, again, a find on the Public Surplus Auction, which she was using to type down the conversation that was going to ensue.

"I represent a consortium with a wide range of interests in the private sector, both domestic and international." the man said. "And from time to time we are on the lookout for legal talent to put on retainer."

"Retainer?" Willis asked, his eyebrows perking up. " _Retainer_...hmmm...why are you approaching us?"

"Because," James said, moving hurriedly to interject across the tax attorney before he could fuck up the situation, "we're a small firm, with not too much of a workload. As a result, we're able to provide more hands-on attention than the larger firms, the kind of attention that we pride ourselves on at Bradley and Japhon, don't we?" He said that last sentence while looking entirely at Willis, intending to get him to shut up.

"Well, your colleague has a fair point," the man said good-naturedly. "I'm asking you, and you in particular because my employer does extensive business in and around Yonkers, and who knows it better than you two? You may not be locals- admittedly, I'm not, either- but you went to school around here, and you've lived here for the past decade, I assume. So I assume you know it like the back of your hand."

"Whelp, you've done your homework." Willis said, leaning back. The damned man seemed very flippant about the financial future of their firm, something which James intended to have a word with him, later. But that was in the future.

"My employer expects no less," the man responded, again, that good-natured tone. James was starting to think that it was getting a bit too cheesy for his taste.

"Then forgive me for being blunt-" Willis began to say.

"Blunt, man, blunt is a strong word," James interjected, _again_. Again, he could feel a vein throbbing, as he wanted to do something, anything, to get the man to shut up.

The man sighed, again, good-naturedly, which, at this point, was beginning to actually feel annoying. Still, James held his lip, and said nothing.

"In my line of work, I find that bluntness is refreshing."

"Hey, a question," Willis said, again, raising a finger. "W-what...w-what exactly is your line of work?"

"Willis," James said in a low voice, now quite exasperated, "Mr...um..."

"Atlantic Investments is my employer," the man replied, the good-naturedness still apparent his voice, but now somewhat muted. It was palpable, palpable to the point where one of Jeanette's eyebrows rose as she continued to type away on the old laptop. "It's the only name relevant to this discussion."

"Ah, of course," James said, cutting across Willis for the third time, before he could say anything else, but now he felt the slightest twinge that something was off. But James Bradley wasn't an impulsive man. He plucked the hunch from its agitating spot and placed it in a kind of mental filing cabinet, telling himself that when this was all over he'd open it and take a good look inside.

"It's not that my employer wants you to _change_ your conduct. We just simply want you to keep being what you are- good, honest, and ethical men. Good lawyers- if there was such a thing."

James gave a quick scoff, as did Willis.

"And for that, for nothing more than your continued performance as good and honest, ethical, men, you will be...ah...fairly compensated."

He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a tan envelope, which he pushed over to James and Willis.

James seized the envelope and opened it. In it was a check. Upon examination, he found the check was for a total of ten thousand dollars.

Damn.

The man checked his watch.

"In fact, I have a case right now just for you. You have thirty-eight minutes to get down to Precinct 4. Everything-" he waved a beige file full of papers Jeanette had just had faxed over "-you need to know is in this file, right here."

"W-what? Y-you can't be serious!" Willis exclaimed. He rose, and then stopped, as James deftly hooked his loafer around Willis' own, causing him to slightly trip and fall back onto his seat.

Willis caught James' eye.

"Umm...yeah...sure..." the tax attorney mumbled. "We'll go. T-thanks, I guess..."

"No," the man said, "thank you."

"Thank you very much," James said, a bit too eagerly, to the point where he could notice it in his own tone, as the man stood up, and left, duplicate file in hand.

"What the fuck is your problem?" he said, when the man had clearly left the building. He wasn't grabbing Willis' collar, but he was very close to doing so.

"Hey guys!" Jeanette intervened, hands on her hips, "don't fight!"

"This doesn't concern you," James snapped, before rounding back on Willis. It was indeed a silly sight, for Willis was a head taller than James, easily towering over the older lawyer. Yet James had Willis cowed over in fear.

Jeanette crossed her arms over her breasts, looking indignant. "He's my brother, and he's your friend. Besides, you guys are partners! N-not that way, of course, but, legal partners! You should work together, not be fighting!"

"Jeannie has a point," Willis said, slowly, ignoring his sister's growing glare. "Besides, the guy was hella suspicious. He didn't even give us his name!"

James sighed. "Look, we'll discuss this later." He pointed at his Casio wristwatch. "We gotta go."

He looked at both Willis and Jeanette's hurt faces, and he felt something go in his head. It wasn't the hunch, but the hunch certainly fed the loose feeling. He had always had the impression that Willis had always been a good judge of character, a useful asset that a lawyer should always have.

"Okay, okay. We're still going, but Jeanette, I want you to look at Atlantic Investments, see what you can dig up. I reckon you won't find much, but still, something is always better than nothing."

"Okay," Jeanette responded. Quickly she disappeared into the kitchen, and James heard her muttering about 'greediness' and 'stupidity' over the sound of the coffee machine.

"I still don't know about this," Willis muttered as the two lawyers exited their offices. "I think it's hella fishy."

"Sometimes your heart is in the right place," James said, fishing in his pockets for the keys to his Buick, "but you just don't know when and where to jump, or stop, or go. Like I said, we'll discuss this later. Come on, we've got a case to chase."

Willis Japhon pouted, but he made no further comment; he recognized authority when he saw it. And so he, too, hopped into the Buick.

~XXXXXXXXXX~

 _Indeterminate room, Chrysler Building, New York City_

The man adjusted his rim-horned glasses as he addressed the shadows, which wreathed and concealed the form of his employer.

"It's done, sir. They have been hired."

The only sign his employer gave of registering what he had said was the flicker of his eyes, which were like merciless chips of cold ice.

"Good."

The single word rang clearly through the room, full of a thousand tones. It was an oxymoron, his voice, simultaneously powerful and cautious, large yet withdrawn. It was the voice of caution, of reason, and yet under it was something more.

Something deeper, something raw.

The merciless chips of ice twinkled in the darkness, as if they were amused by his waiting patience. He knew he was a good employee- could feel it in the very fibers of his being- but there was something about his employer, something about those chips that said they would casually just as eviscerate him as reward him.

"Well?" came the voice, startling him out of his reverie. The word was like a splash of cold water, enough to make him give a visible step back. He didn't think the chips would notice. He _hoped_ they wouldn't notice.

"That is all, sir." the man said, in as a calm voice he could muster, and did an abrupt about-face, eager to get out of there as soon as he could.

Behind him, the chips gazed on, solitary outposts of a shrewd and keen intellect in a world of darkness.

* * *

 **Done. I decided to split this up into two different chapters, since the original, condensed version was pretty large.**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE  
**

"So what exactly happened, Mr. Smith? In your own words, that is."

"All I wanted was to buy some stuff off the guy. The security footage will tell you that."

"The security footage also says that you crushed the man's skull with a metal girder."

"Self-defense. The man, whatever he was, he threatened my life."

"How? James Bradley responded, dropping the files he had been holding absentmindedly in a frustrated grunt. The man -Smith- if that was even his real name, looked nonchalant. If anything, he looked amused. Still, James pressed on.

"How did he threaten you? Verbally? Physically?"

Smith leaned closer, his eyes acquiring a wicked gleam.

"Which sounds better?"

"Excuse me?"

"Ahem- he threatened me both verbally and physically."

James Bradley could not quite believe the words that were coming out of Smith's mouth. This was the kind of line that corrupt criminals spouted to equally corrupt lawyers, who then used every trick they knew to bend the law for their client.

Though James accepted the fact that one couldn't survive without a steady supply of cash, he also chose to believe that he was an adherent to the principles of justice and an upholder of fair justice- and also an administrator of punishment when it was needed.

"Perhaps our firm isn't the right fit for you," he said darkly, beginning to gather the files that had been scattered across the table.

Suddenly, the door handle shifted, squirmed, and fell silent. And then the door opened, revealing Willis Japhon, a leather bag at his side. His equally omnipresent, practically trademarked grin was smeared wide upon his face.

"Sorry I'm late." was all the younger attorney said, giving James a little wave of acknowledgement, as well as an earnest smile towards the client.

James cleared his throat, rather uncomfortably.

"I was just explaining to Mr. Smith, here, that we have a full caseload right now, so we-"

"We'd be absolutely delighted to represent you, Mr. Smith." There was no conviction in Willis' voice, only that surefire, happy tone that marked Willis' common matter of speech. It was surprising how disarming the man's voice was. There was no hint of subtlety, of dark designs or even of an ulterior motive. It flowed, like a clear, rushing river, bringing contentment and reassurance to all who heard it.

"That's good!" Smith said, an actually earnest smile slowly slipping across his face. "When can we start?"

"We will be-"

"A word please, with my colleague," James said. He grabbed Willis' sleeve collar and gave a short, quick pull, indicating to him that he would very much like to have a word.

"We should not be doing this," he grunted when they were both awkwardly huddled into the corner of the room, as far away from Smith as they could get.

"This?" Willis pointed at their rather awkward entanglement. "No, dude, this is perfect. You of all people know I'm bi, and sure, I may be dating Charlie, but that doesn't mean I can't get some of that side action, dude…"

"That's not the goddamn point," James grunted, rather awkwardly. "The point is, we shouldn't be doing this."

"Doing what?"

He dropped his voice to a low whisper, close enough so that only Willis could hear.

"Defending professional criminals."

"You're the one that talks about money, about getting real clients."

"That's not a client, Willis, that's a fucking shark in a suit. You said it earlier, Willis, there's something really fishy about all this."

"Look who's talking, Jamie boy. Look who's talking."

"Willis, shut up."

"Okie dokie, artichoke," the man said, despite being told to shut up. He then continued. "Besides, you're the one always harping on and off about ethics and stuff. We agreed to represent him. We're gonna do our darnedest best to defend the guy, and we'll let the jury take it from there, savvy?"

The two lawyers moved back to their seats, and Willis grinned at James once more, indicating that he wanted to take the lead.

James sighed.

Fine. Just don't screw up.

"Hokay, time to do the business," Willis started, cracking his knuckles audibly. "I suggest that we waive 180.80, which basically allows you to go free in five days' time if the district attorney is unable to come up with an indictment. But I recommend we should waive it to give the DA more time to explore a plea bargain, make us look more truthful, you know? In the meantime, we want ya to be truthful with us. Together, we'll confront the charges, openly and within the confines of the law. Does that sound good? Nod if you understand."

The man sighed, as if Willis and James were two foolish children at the knee of their father.

"No." Before Willis or James could speak further, Smith launched into his own tirade.

"I want the 180.80 date," the man said, his tones clipped and fast. "If I'm indicted, which I know I'll be, we'll waive all the hearings and discovery and go straight to trial. This is not my first time doing this, you know."

"You'll need to testify," James grunted, even as a spasm of shock danced its way across Willis' face, which the other man struggled to hide. "And you're probably aware that the jury will find your testimony...ah...not the most credible."

Smith chuckled, as if he had not a care in the world. "I'm going to have my faith in the American judicial system, and you're gonna do your jobs."

"That simple?" This was from Willis now; he had recovered his composure, despite still looking shaken.

"It's that simple. And, uh, as for the rep who hired y'all, all you need to know is that his check is gonna clear."

* * *

 _Unmined Treasures_ was a dandy little thrift shop that had been sitting around Yonkers for the better part of the last two decades. Many a person had found an old, unused item that had found its way into the shop, and been delighted with it. For every delightment there were at least two letdowns, but that wasn't the important part. _Unmined Treasures_ acquired a solid reputation as a place for one to dig for relics from another time.

But now it was closed.

The police had done their work and the shop had been closed down with caution tape and barbed wire. The shop was inaccessible from any means, save a commando-style air-drop from above which would have necessitated more resources than the place was worth.

Which was why there was a passage leading from the building to another building half a block away, which had also been owned by the proprietor. The proprietor was dead, and _Unmined Treasures_ was closed. The other building was also closed, as well, with the recent passing of its owner.

However, a smaller passage, designed to feed into the main one, was still open for access, provided one knew where to find it.

A man crouched through said five-foot high sewer that connected both buildings, swearing softly at both the stench and the the steady drip-drip of water that pervaded the tunnel, echoing and rebounding constantly. Each step of his loafers further reverberated through the tunnel further adding to his already growing cloud of wariness and suspicion.

Eventually, though, the man found what he was looking for, hidden behind a dusty panel bolted over with an extremely rusty lock. The man withdrew a small rubber mallet, took aim at the lock, and swung.

The lock predictably broke.

Through the dusty panel was the store, the goal of the man.

Logically, there was no reason for the man to be wary, but it was in his blood- it was his nature. He found himself casting a cautious glance as he passed a mirror and found his own reflection casting that same dubious gaze, suspecting everything and watching everyone. He shook his head and moved on.

After some searching, he found what he was looking for, placed neatly in the framework above a drawer of neatly-pressed white clothes.

It was a SIG Sauer P220.

The man smiled briefly, picked and pocketed the pistol, and withdrew a can of compressed gas duster and a white cloth.

Now only to put everything back how it had been...

* * *

Over Vietnamese takeout, the Legal Offices of Bradley Japhon discussed and plotted just exactly how they would attempt to crack the case be them.

"Hey, Willis," James said, as he speared a fried egg, ripped it in half, and ate it, "look up section 35.15 of the penal code, will ya?"

"Thirty-five point-fifteen," Willis said, noisily chewing a cucumber even as he typed on his phone, "coming right up, my dude."

"We'll take the facts, fit them to the jury instructions and the statute, and we should be good to go."

"Damn it!"

"You got the code?"

"It's still loading, darn it. We need better WiFi."

James sighed. "We need better everything."

"Well, if I recall correctly, 35.15 allows you to use physical force to defend yourself if they reasonably believe it's necessary to defend themselves from their assailant. We could argue that, I suppose- given the lack of physical evidence 'round the whole shebang, I reckon it'll go through."

"It's not about that, Willis."

"I know, but it could be a little, just a little in that direction."

Jeanette stopped clacking on the Toshiba, and looked at the two of them, her eyes wide.

"Hey, um, the WiFi's acting weird. Can't type."

"Whelp. Well, while you're at it, you find anything out on Atlantic Investments?"

"Yeah...uh...it's a subsidiary of a holding company, which is in turn a loan-out to a subsidiary of another holding company, et cetera, et cetera. It's an endless paper trail, and since, you know, with all the digitized stuff nowadays...it's almost impossible to fully map and track. Though, that creep's check cleared in just under two seconds, though."

"There's your money," James grunted, waving a piece of meat impaled on a plastic fork. "Here's to better WiFi, people."

They had no wineglasses on hand, so they raised their pieces of food in a mocking parody of a toast.

"But while we're at it," Willis muttered, "bang on the router, will you?"

"Alright, you got it."

Jeanette got up, picked up the router, and punched it hard.

Willis picked up his phone, and began to type again. This time, a joyous expression spread across his face. It was obviously apparent- the WiFi was working again.

"Alright, people, New York State Penal Law Code 35.15, coming straight up!"

* * *

"To brush up, I'll remind y'all that my client is not required to prove that he was justified in his actions. It's up to the prosecution-" he aimed a finger at Ben Lancaster and his assistant of the week- "to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he wasn't justified in defending his life. And they will come nowhere close to meeting this burden. At the end of this case you'll discover that the only logical verdict you can find yourself giving is 'not guilty.'"

Such was the opening statement that Willis Japhon gave.

It did not indicate how nervous he was.

First and foremost, Willis Japhon was a tax attorney. That meant he planned estates for people, advised people on the tax ramifications of starting a business, and represented people who had a bone to grind with the IRS. He was also a certified tax accountant, which was rare among the profession, which meant he was also capable of handling IRS audits, monthly bookkeeping, and of course, income tax preparation. But, what he did not sign up for was to stand in court and pontificate like a trial lawyer. That was James' job. It had always been his job…

...until now.

He found himself shaking slightly as he walked back to the defense table, populated mainly by James and the client. Smith, that was his name, the creepy guy. The guy who James was constantly griping about defending.

"You did well," James said, clapping him on the shoulder. "For a tax lawyer anyway."

"Dude, tax lawyers don't even do these kinds of things," he replied, somewhat nervous yet somewhat

It was the man!

He looked at the jury, and then he saw it.

There was a woman on the jury. Earlier he had glazed over her while looking over the jurors, but in this one serendipitous moment he had noticed. She was nervous. Very nervous.

Now, normally, jurors had no reason to be nervous. And even if they did it was probably because they were worried that jury duty was cutting into their daily schedule.

But the man was here.

And the woman was incredibly nervous.

He didn't know what it was, but something was up.

~~XXXXXXXXXXX~~

Willis Japhon had followed the woman after court had led out. She'd taken a slow, meandering path that had led to some of the rather seedy bits of Yonkers, places that made Willis afraid to drive through. But he had a hunch something was up, and Willis Japhon was part of the Impulsive tribe, the kind that acted on random assumptions pieced together from the of facts.

His assumptions were sparked when the woman veered into an alley. They were further confirmed when she began to talk to a man, and although Willis couldn't quite piece together what the two were talking about, he presumed it was nothing good.

Then the other woman jumped out of the shadows and beat the living daylights out of the man, all while talking about a tape on the woman. That evidenced it. Tampering with the jury. Boy, James and the judge would rail if they were witness to this.

The big question was, though, what to do about the overwhelming silence now? The man could be heard cursing and lamenting his injuries. But the woman? The woman was gone. Both women were gone.

Ain't my problem, Willis Japhon thought as he began to turn and walk away, hands buried deep in his pockets. He intended to tell no one about this. But, he had plans to use his power as an attorney to strike said juror with his power of peremptory strike. (which was the power to remove potential jurors without explaining one's reasons.) He was going to do that as soon as court resumed, which was tomorrow.

Fast-tracking definitely had its benefits.

It was at that moment that something smashed into Willis Japhon.

He'd never been hit by a car before, but as he hurtled towards the sidewalk, he guessed it must've felt something like this. His jaw smashed against the asphalt, and Willis was distantly aware of a ringing pain that must've been his now broken jaw. His hands came away bloody, and his knees were probably in the same condition.

Yet he found himself with astounding mental clarity as something grabbed him, roughly pushed him, and dragged him behind the parking lot which was literally a few steps away from the sidewalk he had been walking on.

"Who are you working for?" the voice of the person who had just assaulted him said curtly, and it was clear to Willis. It was the woman from earlier, the lady responsible for the honestly-brutal attack on the other guy. Right away Willis decided he didn't want to end up like him, if the sound of fists on flesh and his screams were any indication.

"Bradley and Japhon, okay? I'm Japhon," he said, or at least, that was what he meant to say. It came out something like 'Bwadley ahnd Jafun, okay? Ee'm Jafun.'

Regardless, the woman seemed to understand. "You're one of the lawyers- the defense, aren't you?"

"Yah, theet'z abut riight."

She scoffed. "You're going to be putting on quite the show tomorrow. I'm presuming you saw what happened earlier. Saved your butt, I did."

"Shure."

"Do good. Win that case."

She slapped him on the back, hard, but not too hard, which wouldn't have helped anyway- he was hurting all over. The pain itself was mostly coming from his jaw, which wasn't too bad once he had finally steadied himself and slowly gotten up to his feet to notice the fact that the woman was gone. But he could have cared less. Blood stained his trousers, from where it had bled through from his scraped knees. His hands were bleeding, and to Willis it looked like everywhere was bleeding. Gosh darn it, the woman hit hard.

He thought of calling the cops, or even James, but this looked to be some seriously sketchy stuff.

He couldn't walk home either- that warranted getting mugged.

There was, however, a Motel 6 and a convenience store just two blocks ahead.

He walked into the pharmacy and bought quite a few things- rubbing alcohol, gauze, a pack of ice, and a bag of barbecue chips- before wheeling around and walking across the street to the Motel 6, where he checked out Room 271 to stay for the night. A small part of him was amused for staying in a motel in his own city, but it felt like too much effort to call someone. Besides, he was hurting all over, and not just physically.

This whole shebang meant that some kind of judicial trickery was going on here. Someone wanted to to interfere with the due process of the law. And another someone- the lady- meant to screw around with the judicial trickery that said someone was trying to do.

As James was fond of saying in regards to complicated situations, this was a "complete and utter clusterfuck."

He couldn't agree more with him.

* * *

The next day

"The court grants the motion to excuse juror number eight from service, due to extenuating personal circumstances."

The mentioned juror got up and left the courtroom. James thought she looked a little enthusiastic to get out of there, but then, given what Judge Reed had cited, anyone with 'extenuating personal circumstances' would be extremely happy to get the fuck out of there.

"The first alternate juror will replace her. In any case, would the defense care to make a closing argument?"

"Yes, Your Honor. Thanks."

He pushed the chair in and got up from the defense table. He could see Smith talk to Willis, who, honestly, looked like shit. His jaw was swollen, and his hands, which he was using to hold a hefty ice pack next to his afflicted jaw, were wrapped in gauze. Dried blood stained the gauze, and it was painfully apparent that it hurt Willis to move them. When James had asked him about it, the other man had refused to answer, mumbling and waving around with his gauze-covered hands. As a precaution, James had called the man's girlfriend, Charlie Maguire, and arranged for her to be at the courtroom so she could drive Willis home and get him proper medical attention.

"What the hell is he doing?" Smith whispered harshly to Willis, who simply waved his hands and mumbled. Obviously that didn't seem to convince Smith, who kept gazing hawkishly at James. Another such individual to hold such a glare was the aforementioned Charlie Maguire, who was in court attendance, if only to pick up her boyfriend all the more quickly.

"Time is passing, Mr. Bradley," Judge Reed said in his usual contemptuous tone that James felt the judge reserved specifically for him. "Do you have an argument, or not?"

"Yes, Your Honor, we do."

"Then speak it, and speak it quickly."

Internally, James Bradley seethed, and the urge to strike Reed manifested itself in him once more. But at last he fought himself to calm down, and he stood up. He tried to compose himself, but found that his efforts were useless. So he began to speak, the words flowing out of his mouth faster than he could stop to filter them,

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, forgive me if I seem distracted. I've been preoccupied, lately, with questions of right and wrong, good and evil. In fairy tales they're pretty easy to tell apart. But sometimes the borders are blur. Sometimes you just know it when you see it. Like pornography, for instance."

A nervous laugh broke out of the jury box, which spread like a virulent infection to the court observers behind him. Feet shuffled, bodies shifted in the seats, throats cleared, and muffled chuckles filled the closely-packed hair.

Judge Reed's hand brought down the gavel.

"Order in the courtroom!"

James smiled, a wan, brief smile that really held no substance, before he continued.

"A man is dead. I don't mean to joke about that, but these questions are of the vital kind, because they bind us to each other, to humanity. Not everyone sees the border, only the blur. What I mean is that a man is dead. And my client, David Smith, took his life. This is not in dispute. It's a fact, and facts have no moral judgement. They're simply records of what's happened. Not what we think of them, not what we feel. They just are. What was in my client's heart when he took Mr. Lynch's life, whether he's a good man or not, is something entirely irrelevant. These questions of good and evil, as morally important as they are, have no place in a court of law. The facts, those cold, impersonal records of deeds already done, are what matters. My client claims he acted in self-defense. Mr. Lynch's attorneys have refused to make a statement regarding the incident. These are the facts. Based on these and these alone, the prosecution has failed to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that my client was not acting solely in self-defense. And these, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, are the facts. My client, based purely on the sanctity of the law upon which we've all sworn an oath to uphold, must be acquitted of these charges. The judgement is yours, and yours alone to make."

"That was a hell of a speech," David Smith said, clapping his hands slowly. "A goddam hell of a speech."

James was silent. He was feeling a rapidly rising sense of disgust, which made no goddamn sense. He had defended criminals before, tons of them, both in his capacity as a public defender and then in private practice. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. He had no words to say to Smith- not now, perhaps not ever.

"Leef him alone," Willis croaked. "Iths obfious he doesntht vanthed to be talkedth to right now."

~~XXXXXXXXXXX~~

Five hours later

"Madam Forewoman, it's my understanding from this note that you've been unable to reach a verdict."

"We have not, Your Honor."

Judge Reed let out a heavy sigh, which was apparent to James. The exact same thing had happened with the Brown case, and Reed had been unyielding as ever with his supposed dogged determination of what he called "justice."

So it seemed to James, as the judge sighed heftily and began reading from what was called an Allen charge, which was basically something to prevent hung juries from happening. He wondered briefly why Judge Reed had not bothered to use the Allen charge during the Brown trial, but quickly realized why- the judge had desired to welcome him into his clique, and wanted to give James something of a warning to boot. But it was clear that the Judge's attempts to do so had gone unheeded.

So it would seem.

"Members of the jury," Reed grunted, "I'm going to ask that you continue your deliberations in an effort to agree on a verdict and dispose of this case. This is an important case, as all cases are; the trial has been expensive in time, effort, money, and emotional strain. If you all fail to agree upon a verdict, the case will be left open and may have to be tried again. Another trial would only serve to increase the costs to both sides and there is no reason to believe that the case can be tried again by either side any better or more exhaustively than it has been tried before you. So please, I ask now that you retire once again and continue your deliberations with these additional comments in mind to be applied, of course, in conjunction with the other instructions I've given you."

James sighed, and looked at Smith. It was just him and the client now- Willis and Charlie having left in a hurry, after the judge had looked it over and decided to grant a sui generis exception for the other man. If anything, it suited Reed's interests even more- now he could pounce on James alone, without anyone to stand by him.

The jury raised its collective head, and the forewoman raised her hand to speak.

"We have reached a verdict, Your Honor..."

Or not.

* * *

David Smith walked out of the back of a bar, relishing his taste of freedom. Freedom did feel good, especially when you lived in the land where it came from. Today was a good day to be in the Land of the Free.

With a bottle of Heineken in hand, he opened the trunk of his car to grab some clothes, and that was when he saw it.

A shadow, etched on the lid of his car.

He turned.

The two forces collided, and Smith was so out of it for a second that he didn't recognize it was a person. It was a person, with long, blonde flowing hair. It was a woman. It was a very nimble, fast, and powerful woman.

They fought in that alleyway, and it was all he could do to block her blows. But even then it wasn't enough. Exhaustion ate away at David Smith, and while his swings and punches grew increasingly erratic, the woman landed neat and calculated attacks that knocked him to the ground again and again. It was all he could do to scramble away and avoid another crippling strike every time she went at him, and he knew he couldn't sustain this shit for long.

He saw a spare pipe laying there in the trash dump, and he scrambled for it. The woman saw, her blonde hair flowing behind her as she followed him. He grabbed the pipe. He swung it. She moved back, gracefully avoiding the swing. He pressed the advantage, driving her into the narrow passageway between his car and the alley walls. Still she dodged the pipe as neatly and deftly as a dancer. He began to wonder if she was a dancer.

That was certainly proven, when she leapt up on the car and roundhouse-kicked him in the chin, knocking him down on the ground, again.

Lesser men would have been incapacitated by that. But David Smith wasn't a lesser man. He got up, and swung with the pipe, only for the woman to quickly grab the pipe, smack him with it, and throw it away. He went for her hair- long, flowing, and luscious. But it slid strangely in his grip, and he was a tad too late- he felt the smash of her shoe- no, it was a boot- into his own sneakers, causing him to groan in agony even as she knocked him over with an elbow jab.

It was then that he got his lucky break. There was a pane of glass just lying there, unused and derelict. Quickly he scampered for it. She was nipping at his feet, when he manage to seize the entire pane and swung it at her. To his surprise, she punched right through it, shards of glass flying everywhere- miraculously avoiding her face, and his, too, for that matter. He ducked to avoid her fist and managed to grab her by the shoulders, before swinging around with her in a partial headlock.

There were some jagged iron spikes that were coming out of a barbed-wire fence over there. He managed to force her near to the nearest spike, was very well on the way to sticking it through her pretty little face...when suddenly she wrapped her arm around his neck and managed to throw both of them, with Smith on the bottom, down to the ground.

As he lay there he noticed a piece of glass, a particularly large one, right next to him. He grabbed it, ignoring its painful slice through his flesh, and swung it, only to feel her strong grip grasp his hand, force it out of his hand, before she straddled him and held the shard poised over his neck.

"The man that hired your lawyers, who does he work for?"

"You think I'm afraid of you, bitch?" Smith laughed, staring right up into her blue eyes, which were strangely unfocused, as if they were seeing right through him. "I've been-"

He did not get to finish that, as the shard of glass buried itself in his shoulder. Excruciating pain washed over his body, bathing it in flame.

"Who does he work for?" the woman said, firmer this time, but Smith could sense a cruelty hiding behind the facade, one which told him that it had no qualms with torturing him in any way possible to get what it wanted.

"I can't!"

"I want a name."

The thing drove deeper into his shoulder, and Smith screamed. Oh God, it hurt like a white-hot poker being driven into his shoulder. The pain was everywhere; it consumed his mind and his body, and he could think of nothing else...

It went deeper.

"Oh God! Oh GOD!" Smith roared. "Bagrezia! Salazar Bagrezia!"

He felt the damned thing drive even deeper...and then watched in strangely detached fascination as she tore it out of him . He could see bits of his flesh still stuck on the shard of glass as the woman threw the damned thing away.

The woman grunted as she slowly climbed off him and grew to sit cross-leggedly on

the ground.

"Get in your car, and get out of here. If I ever see you in Yonkers again-"

David Smith chuckled.

"No."

The blue eyes narrowed.

"You do _not_ want to test me." the woman said. Her hand closed into a fist.

"Do you think this is still about you?" Smith said, and now the earlier, mocking confidence in his voice had utterly disappeared. The change was so abrupt that even the woman gave a brief flinch, though it was small, and almost non-noticeable. Smith certainly didn't notice it, even as he plowed on with his now newfound hysteria.

"I gave up his name. You don't do that, not ever, not to him. He'll find me, and make an example...and he'll find everyone I care about… and do it to them...so that no one will ever do what I just did."

He stood up, and faced the woman, who had just stood up as well.

"You should have just killed me, bitch. You coward."

He looked at her, looked at her good, and then looked at the jagged metal spike that was sticking out of the fence.

He knew what he had to do.

David Smith impaled his face through the metal spike.

The woman heard the sickening sound of metal slicing through flesh and bone. She could smell the scent of iron in the air. She heard the ripping of his flesh as the metal opened it up, the fracturing of his bone. It combined together to create a sensory image that was altogether horrible to think of, let alone behold. Death by forcing one's face through a metal spike was certainly a painful way to go.

How much power did the individual who was named Salazar Bagrezia hold, to the extent that someone would force a metal spike through their face, rather than face his wrath?

Those were questions that she could not answer, not now, not yet.

All she could do for now was disappear, and wait to strike anew.

The woman disappeared from the alleyway, as quiet as she had come.

* * *

James Bradley opened the front door and picked up the morning paper, something that he'd been doing ever since he'd moved to Yonkers and bought the house. The chill of the morning air bit at him as he bent down to pick the darned thing up.

He picked it up, tore the plastic casing off, and began to read through it. It was the same old, reporting on the daily events of Yonkers. Nothing special, nothing special. He flipped through it as he would with any other newspaper. Although he didn't care much for newspapers once they were read, Claire did, and she liked to recycle them and make paper mache sculptures with them, as well as using them to cover furniture when the house needed painting. Goddamn thrifty Eastern Europeans, they certainly knew how to save.

Then he stopped.

He flipped, very carefully, to the third page, just to see if he wasn't hallucinating what was written on the third page.

 _The remains of David Smith, 38, was found in Yonkers in the area of Glenwood Avenue in the area of Getty Square._

Well, shit.

* * *

 **Done**.


End file.
